A warm, flawless hand glides cool around the curves of brow, cheek, nose, and socket. Like the hand of the Virgin calm on the skin of the Christ, running with pure free love. The sharp edge of muscle softens around full flesh extends, contracts and holds supporting the weight of past, protecting the curves from solitude. Christmas is over three minutes, and I am not the Christ child comforted on the night of my birth. Dreams of sugar plums fade into sleep.